


Mild or Spicy

by Phileas



Series: French cuisine [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, M/M, Multi, Slow Build, Talk of cannibalism, turning people into food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:57:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phileas/pseuds/Phileas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“- Courfeyrac, how do you taste? Mild or spicy?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mild or Spicy

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt was:  
> « Include people playing Mario and use the words : mushrooms, creepily, abrupt, shoe, peanut and cornered. Good luck. »
> 
> Also, English is not my mother-tongue so... If there is any mistakes, I'm sorry.

 

“- Courfeyrac, how do you taste? Mild or spicy?”

 

The question was received with a mixture of curiosity and bewilderment. Jehan blushed when half of the room turned toward him. His voice hadn't been that loud when he asked, but apparently enough to be heard by more people than he though it would. Courfeyrac shot him an amused look and shooed the other's attention from the very timid poet. He stood to sat again on an other chair, closer to Jehan this time.

“- What are you writing?

\- Oh, you know... Nothing much.” He blushed again.

Courfeyrac smiled and tried to read above Jehan's elbow but the young man moved his hand to hide his papers. Courfeyrac shrugged good naturedly and laid back on his chair. He, for one, knew that trying to see Jehan's poetry before the man was ready to show it was a lost battle and would only result in tears. And certainly not from Jehan. The poet drove a pale hand through his short fair hair and resumed his writing just as Courfeyrac pensively answered.

“- I am sweet and spicy. Like chilli chocolate.”

This made Jehan smile and shake his head.

“- Well, that's good news. You'll go well with the beef then.”

Feuilly turned around on the sofa, looking at Jehan with an alarmed expression. Bahorel, by his side, did not move an inch, focused on his video-game and the challenge that Grantaire presented, on the other side of the canapé.

“- Are you writing poetry or cannibal cookery, dear Jehan?

\- I was not aware that both were mutually exclusive, my friend.”

 

A snort escaped Grantaire, who punched the air when his kart passed the finish line before Bahorel's.

“- Cook Bahorel with mushrooms because he obviously was in dire need of those.

\- Oh, this is how you want to play this game, R?”

Bahorel abruptly turned around too, and pointed his finger toward Jehan.

“- You better stew this _Bordelais_ in his own wine!

\- I'm from Cahors!” Said Grantaire with indignation. “It's not even in the right region, Bahorel, really! For shame!”

Jehan smiled, slightly flushed and grabbed a new sheet of paper, ready to throw whatever his friends would invent on it.

“- They make very good black wines in Cahors.” Interjected Lesgle. “It goes quite well with red meat.

\- And _foie gras_!” Grantaire smiled. “But I'm afraid I would be wasted on _foie gras_. Make me into something more rustic. And _melon_ for entrée.”

Courfeyrac let out a delighted laugh.

“- Maybe a stew indeed. With chestnuts and wine. And you would simmer for an entire day in your black wine and spices.

\- My life goal.” He smiles crookedly.

 

Except for Grantaire who was from Cahors and Bahorel and Feuilly from Montauban, they all were from the vicinity of Toulouse. Lesgle did not count, as a true Parisian, and it was decided that he would be cooked into something approaching a _Boeuf Mironton_. This decision was received with a gracious smile and a slight shrug.

“- As long a I'm not a pigeon based dish, I'm the happiest of men.”

The friends looked at him a few seconds before nodding with gravity.  
Half an hour later, Jehan was muffling his laughter behind his closed fist while writing, his shoulder shaking helplessly. His friends' ideas of man-meat meals having somehow taken flight and were now so preposterous that he couldn't stay serious any longer.

“- No!” cried Grantaire, in the middle of a argument with Courfeyrac. “I don't care if he is from Toulouse! He deserves a special dish. Something from the south. Hellenic maybe! With olive, vine leaves and thyme! _Ambrosia_ if you must!

\- R, my friend... Enjolras is not a dainty dish! He is something... Something surprisingly strong but popular! Something everyone could eat and feel happy about! Like... like...

\- A _Cassoulet_?” proposed Bahorel. And Jehan wailed with glee, dropping his pen to hide his face and his tears in both his hands. His stomach hurt from too much contractions but there was no stopping now.

He made the mistake of looking toward Grantaire and the face of the man was so horrified and shocked that Jehan nearly brained himself on the surface of the table. Bossuet nearby, had his fist in his mouth to smother his laughter, to no avail.

“- HOW DARE YOU?” Roared Grantaire. “It's not even from the Midi Pyrénées!!!” With hands shaking from mirth and faked anger, he took his shoe off his foot to throw it toward Courfeyrac, cornered between a chest of drawers and the door.

 

Said door opened then, to reveal Enjolras, Combeferre and Joly, back from the _drink, peanuts and_ _saucisson_ errand they were running until then. The shoe slammed the wall, a few centimetres away from Combeferre's face and silence fell on the room. Grantaire and Courfeyrac simultaneously pointed toward each other and Jehan broke the heavy quietness by dissolving into helpless bouts of repressed laughter.

“- What is going on here?” asked Joly with concerned eyes. He looked at Bossuet who shook his head, still flushed and moved his hand in the direction of the other men.

“- Combeferre...” said Courfeyrac. “I'm sorry about the fondue bourguignonne.

\- The fond- What?” Combeferre raised an eyebrow and moved his imposing frame from the door, to properly enter the flat. “What have you been up to, exactly? Jehan, are you all right?”

Jehan squealed a small “yes” from under his hands, trying to calm down his giggles and his peony red face.

Enjolras shot a glare toward Grantaire who sputtered.

“- This had nothing to do with me! Don't be so ready to put the blame on my person!” He pointed to Courfeyrac. “He is the one proffering blasphemy!

\- Ho my god R!” Cried Courfeyrac, disbelieving. “Your love of -” he hesitated an instant, as Grantaire's eyes were growing comically wide. “... the Greek cuisine... Is getting creepily frightening.”

Combeferre took the paper from a dishevelled Jehan and started to read, his face more appalled every passing second. He took a deep breath and passed the paper to Enjolras and Joly, who read it above Enjolras' shoulder. Combeferre muttered:

“- Really... If anything I am a _Palette à la diable_. Heathen.”

 

Later this evening, Enjolras half turned his head toward Grantaire, as if his entire attention was not something Grantaire was worth of.

“- _Ambrosia_ is not made of human flesh, you know.

\- Ha, but neither are you, darling Orestes.”

This time Enjolras turned his head completely, but Grantaire was already busying himself with an other game against Bahorel.

 


End file.
